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CHARLES M. RUSSELL is famous for his art; but he often illustrated his personal letters; and sometimes he sent illustrated poems. Here's one he sent in 1911, to a Montana pioneer and cattle man, Robert Vaughn. Originally the calligraphy for the poem was by a long-time friend and neighbor, Josephine Trigg. While the following poem lacks the calligraphy, the images are those painted by Russell.

OLD TIMERS by Charles M. Russell

Sketch of cowboy with bottle by D. M. Russell.

Here's to old timers, Bob,
They weren't all square it 's true,
Some cashed in with their boots on-
Good old friends I knew.

Here's to the first ones here, Bob,
Men who broke the trail
For the tenderfoot and boosler
Who come to the country by rail.

    Here's to the man with the gold pan
        Whose heart wasn't hard to find,
    It was big as the country he lived in,
         And good as the metal he mined.

Sketch of miner panning gold by Charles M. Russell.

Sketch of cowboy with gun by Charles M. Russell.

Here's to the rustler that packed a
         notched gun
   And didn't call killins' sins,
If you'd count the cows and the calves
           in his herd
You'd swear all his bulls had twins.

Here's to the skinner with a jerk line
     Who could make a black snake talk,
An could string his team up a mountain
                  road
     That would bother a human to walk.

Sketch of wagon train by Charles M. Russell.

Here's to the crooked gambler
Who dealt from a box that was brace,
Would pull from the bottom in stud hoss
And double cross friends in a race.

    Here's to the driver who sat on the coach
       With six reins and the silk in his grip,
     Who'd bet he could throw all the ribbons
                   away
     And herd his bronk team with his whip.

Stagecoach sketch b y Charles M. Russell.

Here's to the holdup and hoss thief
    That loved stage roads and
            hosses too well,
Who asked the stranglers to hurry
      Or he'd be late to breakfast in Hell.

   Here's to the whacker that strung a long lash
     An his bulls bawled with fear when he spoke,
   He'd swear on a hill that he wouldn't drop trail
       If every bull starved in the yoke.

                                         So here's to my old time friends, Bob,
                                              I drink to them one and all,
                                          I've known the roughest of them, Bob,
                                              But none that I knew were small.

      Here's to Hell with the boosler,
         The land is no longer free,
      The worst old timer I ever knew
          looks pretty good to me.

    NOTE   "boosler" apparently refers to the homesteaders who were
     settling the range, erecting fences, and in Russell's words, "plowing
     the trails under".

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